


The Hound and the Wolves

by TheNightComesDown



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Game of Thrones Spoilers, Gen, GoT spoilers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Just a dad trying to live his life, Mild Language, Platonic Relationships, Season 8, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-27 15:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18741556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: Sandor Clegane, having survived the battle against his brother, has retired to a cottage near Winterfell. The Stark girls, having adopted the relucant hero as a father figure, struggle to find ways to care for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> YO - this is purely platonic, and in no way involves anything weird happening between Sandor "The Hound" Clegane and either of the Stark girls. They're gonna be a happy family, dammit!

A loud banging sound, the rapping of knuckles against wood, woke Sandor Clegane from his sleep, which had been brought on by more wine than was probably good for a man. He groaned ferociously, tore the heavy fur blanket off of himself, and stomped across the wooden floor to the door of his small cottage. He cursed beneath his breath at the temperature; he was certain that the rabbit soup he’d boiled yesterday would be frozen in its pot.

Once he had managed to pull back the deadbolt and rip the door open, he caught sight of the two young women standing out in the cold, waiting expectantly for him. Both were clad in fine furs, befitting ladies of their birth, but one was dressed in trousers, and the other in skirts. 

“Fucking hell, brush your teeth, Clegane” the shorter, dark-haired girl frowned, taking in the smell of him. “Have you just woken up now? It’s past noon.” Her sister sighed at her lack of tact, but Clegane was used to such talk. The youngest Stark girl had once travelled alongside him, and had likely learned some of her hard, ‘unladylike’ ways from him. 

“Thought this was my own fucking home,” he said gruffly, standing aside to let them into the cottage. The fire was barely flickering now, just a dying pile of embers, so the taller of the sisters, the fiery-haired Sansa, set to work stoking it. “Watch it, I don’t want it leaping out of the hearth, now,” Sandor snapped at her. 

Snasa raised an eyebrow as her eyes fell upon the enormous pile of wood stacked beside the hearth. It nearly reached the ceiling, when only a few days before there had been barely enough to keep the fire going for a day. After a particularly bad nightmare earlier that week, the giant of a man, now brooding silently, had lumbered out to the chopping block near the tree line, wearing naught but his trousers, and split logs until his hands blistered and bled. 

“Sandor, you’ll freeze to death if you don’t keep this going,” she scolded gently, looking up at him with soft blue eyes. “I thought we talked about this.” He scowled at the back of her head, earning an amused chuckle from her younger sister, who stood against the wall, glancing about the place. 

“Freeze to death, my arse,” he grunted, pulling his chair out and falling down onto the hard wooden seat. “I’ve kept myself alive this bloody long, and now I’ve got you two trying to comb my hair and burn down my house every other day.” Both girls ignored him, focusing instead on the sorry sight of empty wineskins and a wooden bucket filled with two weeks’ worth of bones, whose meat had been picked clean. 

“You haven’t been sleeping again,” the younger girl, Arya, observed. “You look like shit, and you’ve nearly drunk the Arbor dry, by the looks of it.” She poked at a wineskin on the floor with the toe of her boot for added effect. “If it’s not working well for you to be out here on your own, you know there’s always a room for you—” 

“Get out!” Sandor roared, his chair flying back as he stood up. “I don’t need your fucking charity or anything else your bastard of a brother feels he owes me.” Sansa flinched as he raised his voice, but Arya stood her ground, her arms crossed resolutely across her chest. “I told _King Snow_ I’d kill anyone stupid enough to come down here, but apparently you two are fucking deaf.” 

“Fine,” Arya snarled, brushing past him. “I won’t waste my afternoon on a miserable old shit who doesn’t want me here.” She pulled a leather-bound object from the inner pocket of her coat and slammed it down on the table before storming out the door. Sansa, however, remained on her knees in front of the fire, adjusting logs with a metal tool so the fire would burn properly. 

“Did you hear me?” Clegane demanded. “I said, get the fuck out. Go back to your lion husband and his dwarf cock. About time you gave him a son, isn’t it?” Sansa stood up, returned the metal poker to its place against the stone hearth, and turned her eyes up to him. 

“Tyrion is in King’s Landing, advising my brother,” Sansa replied curtly. “Now, if you’ve finished your yowling, I’d appreciate it if you’d go fetch some water from the pond so I can heat it up.” She pressed her lips together with displeasure. “Arya was right to say you need a wash. It smells like dog in here, and I doubt you’ve had clean dishes in a fortnight. It may be winter, but that doesn’t mean that rats and other vermin aren’t hanging about, looking for warm lodgings.” 

Clegane watched her, his mouth agape, as she began to move about the room, collecting whatever items she felt needed washing. When she glanced up at him to see why he hadn’t already left with the water pail, he growled under his breath but went to do as she’d asked. He came back a few minutes later, having filled it to the brim with icy water from the nearby pond. Sansa hung a large iron pot from the hook above the fire and poured water into it to boil. From the bag she had brought along, she pulled a pair of clean trousers she’d had the seamstress mend for him, as well as a new shirt and a wolverine-pelt vest procured from a wildling huntsman; these things she set out on the table, meaning for him to change into them. 

“Where did you get all of this?” he asked, watching her from where he stood, leaned against the wall of the cottage. 

“Had it made,” Sansa replied, stripping the bed of its linens. She deposited them in a pile on the floor, and set to work turning the straw tick mattress. Fed up with watching her struggle with the weight of the mattress, Sandor crossed the room and with a single hand, flipped it over. 

“ _Why are you doing this?_ ” he amended his question. “I told you, I’m fine on my own. I’m dirtier than you’d like, but I’m not starving or freezing, despite what you two brats may think.” Sansa set her hands on her hips and regarded him with an icy glare. 

“I don’t want you to be on your own,” she countered. “I asked you to stay with us at Winterfell, to share our hearth and home, and you turned me down. I wanted you to eat our food, to drink our wine, and you refused, yet you won’t tell me why.” She stabbed him in the centre of the chest with her index finger and scowled. “If you know what’s good for you, Clegane, you’ll go outside, change out of these mangy rags, and put on what I brought for you. I’ll be back in five minutes.” With that, she too stormed out of the cottage. 

Now alone with his anger and curiosity, Sandor padded over to the table where Arya had left something behind. Pulling the leather drawstrings back from the pouch, he opened its panels to find a beautifully crafted hunting knife, with the shape of a dog carved into its hilt – a reference to the sigil of House Clegane, of which Sandor was the last remaining member. If he hadn’t been so brash with Arya, she might have explained that she had commissioned its forging on his behalf, and that Gendry Baratheon, Winterfell’s most skilled blacksmith, had done the work himself. 

Sansa, too, had left him a gift. The clothes she had set out on the table for him were of sturdy, good-quality materials that could withstand whatever he might find himself doing in the north, and would allow him to work outdoors without overheating or freezing. Both were extremely generous gifts and had been given out of the goodness of their givers' hearts. 

The Stark girls continually surprised him with the things they did for him – and the way they continued to visit him despite his bristling attitude. Why, then, did they come back, if all he ever did was repay them with anger and spite? He shook his head and spat on the floor, ridding himself of the bit of pipe leaf he’d tucked into his cheek on his way to the door earlier. 

“These women are a fucking mystery.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa have a serious discussion; Arya returns and breaks the tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE (WITH SPOILER FOR 8.05!): King's Landing hadn't been absolutely gutted when I wrote this chapter and the previous one, so for now (until I decide on a better castle for Jon to govern over (Winterfell feels too far north for my liking), King's Landing is going to be the seat of the crown.

With the fire crackling low in the hearth, the cabin was finally heating up nicely. Sandor, who was now dressed in the garments Sansa had given him, sat in a hardwood chair, whittling away at a chunk of wood with a knife he’d procured from the wooden chest at the end of his bed. The only other sound in the room was the splashing of water in a large basin, in which Sansa was scrubbing at the bed sheets she’d stripped from Clegane’s large mattress. Being nearly 2 metres tall required him to have a particularly long bed, with bedding made to fit.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Clegane grumbled, looking up from his task. Sansa had twisted her long, red hair into a bun atop her head to keep it from dipping into the soapy water. Her hands and wrists were red from the heat of the water, and a thin sheen of moisture coated her forehead where the steam from the tub had condensed. 

“I know,” she acknowledged, rubbing hard with her knuckles at a bit of dirt that was clinging to the fabric. “Though I might as well do _something_ useful as long as I’m here.” Her brow creased further as she grew frustrated with the stained sheet. “Do you wear your muddy boots to bed? This dirt is impossible.” A smile, barely visible through his beard, crept across Clegane’s lips. 

“Leave it, Sansa,” he insisted, setting aside his knife. “You’ve done enough. Sit up at the table and do your needlework or something. Whatever it is ladies do when they’re not...” he trailed off, deciding against his habit of making a crude comment. Her blue eyes flicked up to meet his with a sharp glare. 

“I can do more than needlework,” she frowned, slightly offended by the implication that she wasn’t capable of such a task. “I just wanted to help you. After all, it’s not as if you’re doing your own washing.” Realizing that he had, once again, frustrated the girl, Sandor sighed heavily and set his knife and partially-carved wood block onto the table. Kneeling down beside the washbasin, he reached out and put his large, beefy hand on Sansa’s shoulder. 

“You have to understand,” he said timidly, his voice still gruff, “that no one’s ever done anything for me _just because_ , or out of kindness. You’re the first, you and your sister.” His expression was one of discomfort, as if he had a sour taste in his mouth. Sandor Clegane was _not_ the kind of man to easily share his feelings. His burly shoulders fell as he breathed another sigh; these girls would never understand. 

“What about your mother?” Sansa inquired, sitting back on her heels and leaving the bedding to soak in the hot water. “Surely your mother loved you.” How could any mother not love her child, she thought? Even Cersei had cared deeply for her monster of a son, and her conniving Aunt Lysa for young Sweetrobin. Sandor laughed humourlessly at her naiveté. 

“My mother was dead before I was old enough to remember her,” he rumbled. “And my father and brother held no love for me. Even whores and washerwomen turn up their nose at the sight of such an ugly brute.” Sansa bowed her head, trying to comprehend what he had just shared. It was no wonder he was such a grouch of a man – he had never known the love of anyone, family or otherwise. 

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, reaching for one of Clegane’s abnormally large hands. He grimaced as her soft skin met his own, but after a moment, decided that there was no use complaining or trying to resist. The gesture was out of caring, and not pity, he knew. 

“Sorry doesn’t change the past,” the Hound shrugged. “But my brother’s dead, and I’ve got more than I deserve now. No sense in expecting anything more.” 

“More than you deserve?” Sansa inquired, quirking an eyebrow. Finally having reduced the dirt mark in the sheet, she lifted it from the tub and got to her feet, giving herself space to wring it out. Water poured back into the basin, with a small amount splashing onto the surrounding floor. The sleeves of her dress were wet at her wrists, but Sansa didn’t seem to mind; she had her eyes trained on the man before her, who was squirming uncomfortably. 

“My brother should have killed me when I had the chance,” he muttered, so low Sansa could barely hear him. She finished wringing out the sheet so that water wouldn’t drip all over the floor when she took it outside to hang on the washing line, hanging between two trees. 

Already hanging was the shirt Clegane had been wearing when she’d arrived earlier, as well as a pair of pants she decided to pre-wash before giving them to the seamstress to attempt to mend. They smelled so strongly of sweat and animal blood that she was afraid the poor old woman would refuse to work with them. 

“Don’t say that,” the red-haired girl snapped. Her harshness surprised Sandor; she had always been the even-tempered sister, and Arya the hotheaded one. Today, though, her attitude had shifted from its norm. 

“It’s the truth,” he retorted. “All of Westeros has wanted me dead since the day I came to King’s Landing. If I’m dead, none of them has to look at me and pretend to have pity.” Sansa slung the sheet over the line and swung around toward him, clutching the front of her plain brown dress in her fists to prevent herself from swinging at him. 

“I don’t want to hear any more of that from you!” she scolded. Her cheeks were bright red, and he could almost see her teeth bared beneath her snarling lip. “Arya and I wanted you here, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to sit about in this stupid little cottage and let yourself rot. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and start living.” Sansa’s breathing was heavy, and her shoulders shook with the rage she was feeling. 

Sansa marched into the cottage, likely to return to her washbasin, which still contained a few wool stockings to wash. Clegane’s boots absolutely reeked and were falling apart at the seams, so Sansa had sent her sister back to Winterfell to request a new pair from the cordwainer. Sandor allowed his eyes to settle on the blood-red leaves of a nearby weirwood tree, and said a short prayer to the gods he didn’t believe in: _tell me what the fuck to do about these girls._

When he re-entered the cottage, he saw Sansa standing in front of the fire, watching the logs crackle and burn. Even though he’d had months to adjust to the idea of the flames being so close to everything in his living space, Sandor still occasionally felt phantom pain on the right side of his face, as though he were reliving the event that had scarred him in his childhood. He still woke in the night, sweating and shouting for his father, with the sensation of his brother Gregor’s hand clutching at the back of his shirt, pushing him closer to the brazier filled with hot coals. The stench of burnt skin, be it animal or other, was still too much for him. With these memories flashing through his head, Sandor stopped, gripped the back of a chair, and watched Sansa as she peered into the flames. 

“Why do you care so much, little bird?” he asked softly, breaking the silence. Sansa was quiet for a moment, still watching the fire intently. Seconds before raising his volume and repeating the question, Sansa glanced over her shoulder at the man she owed her life to; she was convinced that without him, she would never have made it out of King’s Landing. Sansa had become the person she was on her own strength, but Sandor had protected her physically, against the orders of the ruthless Joffrey, on multiple occasions. 

“You remind me of him, sometimes,” Sansa spoke, turning back to the fire. It wasn’t so much an answer to his question as an observation. “My father, that is. Not in every way, but in some. Your loyalty and compassion; the goodness in you despite situations that should have destroyed it all. He was driven by his love for our family, and you by your need for vengeance.” She bent down to retrieve another small log, and set it into the hearth, feeding the flames with its dry bark. 

“You are more than having defeated Gregor,” she said resolutely, moving to take a seat at the table. Clegane looked down at her with hard eyes; it was nearly impossible for him to accept any sort of compliment or affirmation from others, because it had never been in his nature, or his experience, to do so. “You kept Arya from dying that day in King’s Landing. You saved me from rapists and clothed me when Joffrey had my dress ripped to pieces. You offered to take me back to Winterfell, away from the wretched Lannisters, and yet, you wonder why I care?” She seemed both incredulous, but also sad. Sansa knew how little regard Clegane had for himself; she too had once looked in the mirror each day to see someone she hated: a meek child, a weakling. 

A single hot tear rolled down Sansa’s cheek, but she made no move to wipe it. She prided herself in her strength, her lack of emotional reasoning; acknowledging her tears was a weak move, and she wanted more than anything for Sandor to view her as strong. Maybe not in the same ways as Arya, but in her own right. Without saying anything, Clegane reached out and wiped the tear away with the thick pad of his thumb. A bit of dirt transferred from his thumb and streaked across Sansa’s cheek, giving her complexion a unique colouring on one side of her face. 

“I know you care,” Sandor promised. “You and Arya both. Fucking too much, if you ask me. But if you must, if you _choose_ to care about me, I promise to cooperate.” 

“How do you mean?” Sansa swept a fallen piece of her hair back into her bun, trying to keep it in some semblance of order. While Sandor Clegane surely didn’t care about how she looked, others at Winterfell expected the Warden of the North to be well-kempt at all times. 

“I’ll come in to have my washing done,” he began, glancing about the room to determine what other tasks he might have. “And I’ll take meals at your table, when you want me to.” 

“And the position I’ve offered?” Sansa wondered, tilting her head. The other promises were all well and good, but she had been awaiting this answer for weeks. 

“Yes, I’ll do it,” Sandor said decidedly. His voice had returned to its usual sarcastic growl, which Sansa thought suited him. It was the one she had come to know and appreciate in King’s Landing, and that she now heard nearly every day on her outings to see Clegane. 

“Tyrion will be delighted,” Sansa nodded. 

“Not for your dwarf husband,” he corrected her, reaching for the last remaining wineskin he had been saving for the afternoon. “I’m doing this for you. For Arya.” 

“Understood,” she replied, watching as he filled two wooden cups with wine. There had been no misconceptions about this fact. Tyrion had his own guardsmen who attended him on travels, and within Winterfell. Clegane, however, had been offered the opportunity to serve as a guard to the eldest Stark when her husband was away in the capital, at her brother’s side. This was a regular occurrence, and as such, Sansa required someone loyal and trusted to fill the positon. 

As sisters to Jon Snow, King of Westeros, both women had a duty to protect and serve the realm in whatever capacity they were able. Sansa served as the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, both in her husband’s presence and absence. Arya’s duties were mostly unknown to her, and she didn’t dare ask. The younger girl’s skill-set and abilities were a mystery Sansa didn’t care to delve into. 

As soon as Sandor had worked up the humility to apologize for hurting Sansa earlier, Arya stalked through the cottage door, having approached without making a sound. Sansa jumped a bit in her seat, and Sandor nearly tipped his chair over as he stood up to defend her. When Arya gave him an amused smile, he fell back into his seat with a huff. A sharp crack was heard as his arse connected with the chair, but somehow the chair was intact. 

“You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a pair of boots in your size, Clegane,” Arya said sourly, scowling at her friend and travelling partner. “The cordswain made me stand there while he _made_ the shoes – the ENTIRE time,” she complained. “I’d have sent you myself if I trusted you not to skewer him for not being faster.” For the first time that afternoon, Clegane tipped his head back and laughed, astounded at the girl’s insipid assumption. 

“Girl, I’m half a foot taller than any man living at your silly castle at the time being,” he shook his head. “For fuck’s sake, why would the cordswain have made a pair of boots for an old shit my size when there aren’t any to be found in this part of Westeros?” A smile crept over Sansa’s lips, and she too joined his laughter after Arya’s face darkened in annoyance. She’d walked a half hour both ways for those boots, and the reception she’d returned to was certainly not one of gratefulness. 

“Not sure why we bother with you and your stench sometimes,” she thundered, stamping across the room towards the pot of stew Sansa had prepared earlier. She sloppily ladled a bowlful for herself, slammed it down on the table, and shovelled it into her mouth as her companions watched on in intrigue and horror. 

“Arya, be kind and _polite_ ,” Sansa insisted, watching her sister attack her afternoon meal. The girl glanced up at her sister, and then at Sandor, who began laughing again at the insinuation that Arya had table manners. 

“He’s stood watch while I’m taking a shit, Sansa,” she shrugged, continuing to spoon hot broth into her mouth, some of which dripped down her chin and back into her bowl. “Pretty sure Clegane and I are passed ‘polite’ by now.” 

* * * * * 

Arya and Sansa spent the remainder of the afternoon with the washing and general tidying of the little cottage. After it was clear that Sandor would be of little help, they banished him outside, where he found a seat on a tree stump and continued with his little whittling project. The dishes and laundry were a breeze with two of them at work, and the remaining tasks included sweeping the floor, making the bed up, removing the abundance of ashes from the hearth, and dusting some incredibly disgusting surfaces. 

At one point, Clegane came running at the sound of Sansa's shriek, only to discover that she'd disturbed a particularly hairy spider. He swiftly dispatched the offending creature and gave the girl a reassuring pat on the back. Sandor knew what it was to be afraid, even if the fear wasn't necessarily rational. 

The three of them sat up to the table with leftover bowls of stew for the last meal of the day. Arya had managed to snatch a loaf of thick, crusty bread from the kitchen when she'd gone to Winterfell for the boots, and it worked well to mop up the liquid at the bottom of their bowls. Once those bowls had been cleaned, Sansa and Arya prepared to return to the castle for the night, wanting to get back before dark. 

"Wait, I've got something for you both," Sandor told them, requesting that they remain in the cabin for a few more minutes. From the chest at the end of his bed, Clegane pulled two wooden figurines, which he'd carved himself. After spending so much time alone, he had taken up the hobby to pass the time. Into each girl's open hands, he placed his creations. 

For Sansa, a direwolf that appeared to be surveying an unseen crowd; its expression was regal, and its posture one that commanded respect. To the left side of the direwolf was a smaller dog, its teeth pulled back into a warning snarl. 'The Direwolf and The Hound', she later decided to call it. 

Arya's figurine was a similar size and contained the same characters, but instead, the dogs were side by side, prowling forward - a pair of travelling companions. The direwolf was much larger than the dog, but both had a formidable presence in their own way. 

"These are beautiful, Sandor," Sansa gasped, rushing forward to throw her arms around the man's middle. He awkwardly lifted his arms above her shoulders and gave her back a quick pat, with hopes of her releasing him as soon as possible. Arya, not one for hugs or unnecessary touching, gave him a grateful nod, and assured him that it would be treasured. 

"Now off you go, before the real wolves come out and snatch you girls up," Sandor said firmly, steering them by their shoulders towards the door. "Even Arya's little needle and the Stark sigil won't help you if you're surrounded by a pack of hungry dogs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya's turn next time - and Sandor comes to Winterfell to stay while Tyrion's away!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update this at some point. Updates will be short, and will not be scheduled - I am an erratic human being, and I apologize for this ahead of time. If you like it and want to see it continue, let me know!


End file.
